


you weren't meant for me (clearly)

by ghostwit



Category: One Piece
Genre: Canon Compliant, Doffy's a little clingy and they're both. mean., Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, I guess? In the loosest sense of the term., Implied Sexual Content, Kinda a character study but not really., M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Mild possessive behavior in this one too lawl., Minor Injuries, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:22:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22080253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostwit/pseuds/ghostwit
Summary: (Life was too easy, anyway.)The billowy fabric of Doflamingo's pants swarm dark around his knees as he steps backwards, pure snow subdued to ash by the desaturated grey-green wash of the tide, arms raised to gesture openly (they tremble, just a bit), encourage the other man into the sea with him.(Who would wanna repay all the pain that you owe me?)(Set on Spider Miles, a bit--think a year or two, maybe less--before Crocodile begins Baroque Works.)
Relationships: Crocodile/Donquixote Doflamingo
Comments: 1
Kudos: 25





	you weren't meant for me (clearly)

The billowy fabric of Doflamingo's pants swarm dark around his knees as he steps backwards, pure snow subdued to ash by the desaturated grey-green wash of the tide, arms raised to gesture openly (they tremble, just a bit), encourage the other man into the sea with him. He reaches out, a hand wrapping fully around Crocodile's wet ankle, gives a yank which does little to actually shift the weight of the other man, instead earns him a curse and sloughs some sand into the pull of the waves, leaving an arcing indent beneath Crocodile. 

He's shed his pants, Doflamingo's coat laid sloppily over his shoulders to shield him from the night wind, and the gleam of pale legs, deliberate muscle made slick and soft with salt cut into a moonlit stripe by the distinct shadow of feathers makes Donquixote shiver, let loose an unruly cackle. He looks uncharacteristically small, dwarfed by the still-dry feathers. 

Crocodile's scars are still deliciously fresh, the split running between his ears, the gape of his hand and that yawning wide in his chest just raw enough for Doflamingo to run puppeteer's fingers over, to feel the frantic pulse of blood beneath the skin to heal the wound with haste. The hunter's delight works its way through his veins as he takes soaked hands and runs them along alabaster calves in his approaching of the other man, who growls, childishly throws a handful of wet sand which splatters noisily into uncomfortable grain across his bare stomach. 

Crocodile snarls against his mouth when he kisses him, dragging the two of them a couple inches further into the surf, and the lead in his limbs makes him slump into the older man. When the slump, the (in)voluntary loss of power, is mirrored in the older warlord, lids gone heavy and bare chest pressed flush to Doflamingo's to grind sand into moisture-softened skin as he leans forward, Doflamingo smiles through his haze, moves further up to sit fully in Crocodile's lap and wrap his arms around the plush of his own coat. Long legs cross over his back, white at the thighs and dark grey down the knees where they’d been saturated with salt water, trapping the unrepentant volume of the coat.

The desire to find what is beautiful: the way strands of dark hair hang into Crocodile's field of vision, cut by the edge of his sharp gaze under delicately dropped eyelids, gold pools glowing like ichor in moonlight, water lapping and suctioning at the fold of strong legs. The desire to find it, and to  _ kill _ it, to own it forever and mount it on your wall and paint yourself to the elbows in its beautiful, scarce blood: he kisses him. Doflamingo is the first to draw away with pounding temples and aching lungs, though his ailing doesn't stop him from letting loose a deliberate whine, lets Crocodile know he can't stand to be apart from him, even for air. Crocodile blinks, slow and thoughtful, and his head droops forward as if he's nodding off. Despite being seated below the blonde, his posture is more relaxed, exhaustion in his hunch despite his reflexive jackrabbit pulse, the way his arms droop lazily into the pocket created by Donquixote's folded legs, the weight of his hook icy and foreign through the fabric plastered to his skin. 

His tongue traces the cut of Crocodile’s jaw, speaks triumph in the indulgent swipe, and Crocodile’s ring-laden fingers give a little sleepy twitch in their laps. The older sighs, lets his head fall to look into the distance, the point where the sea meets the horizon off Spider Miles. Behind them, trash mounds dominate the view in craggy, mountainous heaps, jagged teeth, steam unfurling from smokestacks like hot breath. Crocodile’s gut gives a traitorous little twist of weakness at the thought of it, the sky falling down on the two of them--Doflamingo’s rocking back and forth just a little in Crocodile’s lap, whining as he does, almost as if to distract him from his fatalistic spiral--crunching them in its maw. He wonders how small they’d look to a man on the horizon, and the suction of the sea against his bare skin makes his head spin with lust, desire that lays hot and bitter like ink in his mouth and makes his scars itch to be torn open to offer more, more, always  _ fucking more _ blood to the ocean.

" _ Waniiiiii,” _ the man in his lap croons, and,  _ agh _ , he can feel the press of the damned bird’s half-hard cock against his hip with every jolt, nudging against his fingertips and carelessly letting the weapon in their lap make aborted little jerks in the scant space between them (the tip of which is pointed at Crocodile’s abdomen, the damn bastard), and he moves to turn to sand beneath him as he shifts to lay the hook in wet sand, leave the younger rocking into air, before he remembers, ah, he’s quite wet. Even when thinking of the sea, it's escaped him.

“Airheaded brat,” Crocodile spits so as to avert from his momentary lapse in presence, eyes still focused into middle distance. Doflamingo grins at this, presses his grin to Crocodile’s neck so he can feel cold bone.

“It’s a truce, Croco, can’t have you trying to kill me out here,” He nuzzles into the cords of muscle at the juncture of the man’s neck and shoulders, “We’re on a date!”

His excitement is muted, the weight of the gradual poison of the sea siphoning away his strength, but genuine nonetheless, and Crocodile smothers the urge to kiss him to silence. 

"I'm still armed," He lifts the hook as a reminder, sends him a sideways glare icy enough to make the fine hairs on the nape of Doflamingo's neck prickle, even with his gaze trained on the handsome flex of Crocodile's throat, tasting his pulse as it slows. He laughs, drags his tongue along salt-roughened skin, and the sound reverberates through Crocodile's skull, each pitchy  _ Fu _ - _ fu _ a stake driven through grey matter. 

Doflamingo's hands busy themselves again, giving the nape of Crocodile's neck a firm pinch along the ridge of tense muscle, knuckles brushing against his own lent plumage before lifting off and moving downwards, squirming under the fabric of his wet briefs with a little thrust of his hips: wet thighs salt-sticky on wet fingers. 

“Let me bruise you,” he grins, wolfish and hungry. Crocodile scoffs. Doflamingo digs his nails in until he can feel blood welling beneath his fingers, “You can take it.”

Crocodile’s hand is rough on Doflamingo’s cheeks, thumb running over the soft trench below the blonde’s right eye in slow circles, joints tapping along the ridge of his glasses with every movement. Donquixote’s got his fingers wrapped around the curve of his hook, delicate so as to not slice the digits, a juvenile display of clinginess contrasted by the black of dried blood lining his nails, the matching lines of angry welts and marks turning a sickly green the two sport under their clothes. 

“A man can only live in these sorts for so long,” the wording is grandiose, but the cock of his head, the dig of his thumb deep enough that Doflamingo’s vision goes double and he can feel his lids straining with the pressure of his eyeball trying to come free is teasing.

"A man? You aim too low, Croco-bastard.” The split in his face with his grin forces Crocodile’s thumb further into his under eye, and Doflamingo’s head pounds. He grips the older man’s hook a little tighter.

A little laugh wheezes out of the corner of Crocodile’s mouth, thinking of the practical trash heap the brat’s made his base of operations, the scrappy little group of severe and strange adults imposing in a way that almost feels over-compensational for the port town, “You’re delusional.” 

He turns to sand when Doflamingo’s hand shoots out, frantic, hoping for a handful of silk, a mouthful of Crocodile one last time. A diagonal line of red forms across his fingers following the bite of pain with his withdrawal, appearing crooked until he brings his hand together and connects the ends. He watches, stares at his fingers as he spreads and closes them in an erratic rhythm, shifting and curling to disrupt the ridge of blood, something to focus his sight on so he doesn’t bring his eyes up to greedily drink in the sight of his receding form. His chest gives a pathetic little twist, and he laughs a little under his breath, drags his bloody hand down his face so some of it streaks across his cheek, hangs delicately in his lashes like tears. 

Crocodile takes one backwards glance once he’s out at sea, hand fisting in the main halyard, a sudden paranoia for their semi-public display nipping obnoxiously at his heels. The smoke rises heady, a mirror of his own parted lips, and he can’t see Doflamingo on the dock. He sighs, deep, lets his shoulders drop and his eyelids flutter.  _ Maybe. _

**Author's Note:**

> Can't tell if I made this one too long or not! Maybe one day I'll write like. why they're fucking around in the ocean like horny teenagers, lol. I also wanted to write a bit about Cora being like On God We're Gonna Get You Some Therapy Bro when Doflamingo comes back happy-delirious with his face wayyyy more bloody than that little cut warranted because he wanted something to hold onto, lol. 
> 
> Ah, now that I've got that written out, I really DO feel like I should have. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, please leave a comment or something if you enjoyed, I really love reading any and all input! 
> 
> hazeism.tumblr.com
> 
> EDIT: ALSO, YEAH, I REALIZED HE GOT HIS SCAR BEFORE THE WB DISPUTE. THAT WAS MY BAD GVDSFHJCN. PLEASE ENJOY ANYWAY.


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